


Imhar the Clever

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Avvar, Crack, Cultural Differences, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-03-21 22:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor is an Avvar. Dorian tries to be understanding and make allowances for cultural differences.</p>
<p>In hindsight, that was possibly his first mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Imhar the Clever is an Avvar trickster deity. Written for the DA kink meme in response to a request for Avvar!Inquisitor and the information that kidnapping by prior arrangement is apparently a pretty standard marriage proposal among the Avvar.

While Dorian does appreciate that Arran is completely sincere in his wish to 'heal the pain of the Lady of the Skies', and the man is much smarter than most give him credit for, brave in battle and decisive as a leader, on a more personal level he is _driving Dorian mad_.

The fact that their Inquisitor is an Avvar has lead to various difficulties (Dorian does not envy Josephine her job right now), chief among them the fact that he doesn't seem to care if anyone around him understands what he is saying or not. Dorian has read every single book the library has on Avvar culture, which has mostly taught him that scholars don't know a blighted thing about Avvar culture.

And then, there's Avvar flirting. Or what he presumes is flirting. Hopes is flirting. Arran refers to him having _the tongue of Imhar_ once and even after figuring out the reference Dorian's not even sure if that's a compliment. And then, what is _would you choose a long song to sing me_ and all the references to knots? _Would you tell me of secret paths and wait for me in unguarded places?_ is much less subtle.

Unless it's some sort of bizarre metaphor, which with Arran is _also_ possible. However, saying _yes, of course_ made Arran smile at him in a way that is quite pleasing, particularly the memory of it late at night when Dorian is of a mind to think warm thoughts as a ward against these cold southern nights. So he presumes it's simply _Avvar flirting is weird_ and hopes it will all be made clear in time.

The confusion over exactly what Arran's intent is, though, doesn't quite untangle until Arran comes to him holding a letter. While Dorian is still working through various levels of outrage at his father, Arran steps close to him, crowding him against a bookshelf. Dorian can feel his body heat; maybe it's an Avvar thing, but the man is like a furnace.

"This _retainer_." Arran says, the word sounding awkward in his mouth. "He is authorised to represent your clan?"

Dorian has found from experience that any attempt to explain this sort of thing to Arran in detail results in a headache on his side and Arran just more convinced that everything in Tevinter is _foolish_. Granted, sometimes he may have a point. "Yes, something like that."

"Excellent." Arran says, beaming broadly. "I will demand permission of him."

Only Arran would _demand permission_. "For what, precisely?"

"To kidnap you, of course." The giant man tilts his head, wearing an expression that puts Dorian in mind of some sort of large, confused dog. "We have discussed this."

Right. They have discussed the fact that Arran wants to _demand permission to kidnap_ him. Putting aside all the inconsistancies of that statement aside for a moment, "I certainly wasn't aware we had discussed _kidnapping_. We have been flirting, yes."

"Yes. Flirting. And after that comes the kidnapping, and then the marriage." Arran looks stubborn now, not an uncommon expression on him. "You said you would wait for me in unguarded places, but I still must demand permission of your clan first. I would not dishonor you."

_Marriage_. Dorian waits for a moment for someone to jump out and go _ha-ha, got you, it was all a joke_. When it doesn't happen-- when he's still here pressed against a bookshelf by a very handsome but rather infuriating barbarian who thinks-- oh sweet Maker, he had gotten into the habit of just agreeing to some of Arran's more cryptic chat-up lines, hadn't he. He'd not thought for a minute that they were _proposals_. He imagines Arran face-to-face with one of his father's lackeys, that sour Liberati who does all his dirty work, perhaps, demanding 'permission' to kidnap and marry Dorian. That _definitely_ needs to _not happen_. "Arran, I cut ties with my family for a reason. I am a member of the Inquisition, am I not? And my own man. You do not need to ask them for permission for _anything_ to do with me."

Arran looks down at him for a moment. "I understand."

"Wonderful." And now all he needs is to have a talk with Arran about the marriage part, preferably in some place not so terribly public. Not that he is, as such, opposed to the concept. He definitely needs some time to think about it, though. And probably a good stiff drink.

What he gets is an Avvar barbarian picking him up and throwing him across a shoulder with a sort of war-whoop, then hurtling down the stairs at speed. "What-- Arran!" There's no response.

"Inquisitor?" he hears, as they head through a door, but Arran whoops again, side-steps as if dodging somebody, and continues on. Dorian catches a brief glimpse of a very confused looking Cassandra before Arran turns another corner. A short tour of Skyhold, as seen at dizzying speed thrown over Arran's shoulder follows, until Arran bursts through one last door and drops Dorian unceremoniously on his bed.

It isn't that hard to piece together. "Was that you kidnapping me?" And then running around half of Skyhold with Dorian flailing like an idiot over his shoulder, _everyone_ will have seen, he is never going to live this down--

Arran answers him with a kiss. Dorian _really_ needs to have a serious conversation Arran about this, starting with explaining why 'kidnapping' him from the library in the middle of the day is not on.

It _is_ a very nice kiss, though.

Perhaps the talk can wait.

* * *

Bull: Figure he's going to play the Avvar card again?  
Varric: *laughs* Oh yeah.  
Dorian: What are you talking about?  
Bull: What, you never noticed? He understands everything perfectly, until it becomes inconvenient for him.  
Varric: And then? Goat blood! Metaphors about the sky! Portents! Convenient cultural misunderstandings!  
Bull: It's a great trick. Wish I'd thought of it.  
Dorian: Right. *glares holes in Arran's back*  
Arran: Tricking your bride is an entirely legitimate tactic. Do you not like being married?  
Dorian: I never said _that_.  
Varric: Sparkler, nobody who was within about a mile of camp last night would say _that_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a couple of additional snippets for ridiculous Avvar!inquisitor and his ridiculous husband

His father. Of course it's his father. Saying some nonsense about how he doesn't want to get Arran involved-- hah! Doesn't want to be seen involving himself, more like.

"I am not here as the Inquisitor." Arran replies, calmly. "I am here as Dorian's husband."

As simple as that. As implacable as stone. Arran cannot be argued out of his opinions, Dorian knows _that_. "For the next eight years, at least." he says, lightly, because it's far better than looking at his father's expression, whatever that is.

Arran snorts. "It's not a bad length, for a first marriage. If you so desire it, I will marry you as many times as necessary."

"Maybe next time around I'll invite you to the wedding." Dorian informs his father, who, when he dares to peek, is now doing a lovely impression of one of those slack-jawed fish in the aquarium in Minrathous. "Until then, go home. Console yourself with the thought that I _have_ at least made an advantageous match, if the fact that I am fighting to save the world seems insufficient."

He does, much later, attempt to explain the situation to Arran. Who still thinks everything in Tevinter is foolish. He may be right. "There are many children." Arran says, looking puzzled as to why Dorian would need an heir, or at least a woman to bear one. "If you do not have any of your own, just take one from someone else."

Right. "You mean _adopt_ , Arran. Not take. You can't just _take_ a child."

Arran nods. "Of course not. First they must wrestle each other, or pass some other test, to prove who is strongest." He grins in the way Dorian is slowly learning means that Arran is at minimum exaggerating a little to amuse himself. "You are brave and strong and beautiful, and it would be foolishness to be anything but proud that you are mine."

Dorian swallows past the knot in his throat. "I can be proud of you, at least. And I can work on the rest."

* * *

When he reaches the end of the chapter, Dorian looks out the window, pauses, and looks again.

Arran and Bull are a bad influence on each other at the best of times, but this-- are they _throwing tree trunks_?

By the time he gets down there several Templars and a couple of the Chargers have joined in the ridiculous competition, and Sera is perched on a nearby rooftop cheering them on-- well, yelling horrible things about handling wood, at least.

Arran wins, and Dorian refuses to congratulate him. "Is this what you do for fun?" he demands. "You terrible barbarian."

Arran just laughs. "Do you have a better suggestion, my lowland flower?" Dorian will note this is apparently a _shirtless_ ridiculous competition.

"He has _lots_." Cole says. "But they're secrets."

"Cole, please don't say anything else." Dorian says, very quickly, but not quickly enough to stop Arran's smile. "I am going to go back to my quarters and read now, which is what people who aren't _barbarians_ or _savages_ or _impossible_ do in their free time."

"The little Antivan book with the pictures?" Arran asks hopefully.

Dorian throws his hands in the air and storms off; granted, not at such a pace that Arran couldn't easily catch up if he wanted to.

* * *

"That _beast_ ," Blackwall says, with distaste, "is _sickening_."

The Inquisitor, who was lounging against a pile of rocks divining _something_ out of the clouds or some such, sits bolt upright. "The hold-beast is unwell? An ill-omen."

"No, it's apparently _fine_ , for an undead horse with a sword through it's head." Blackwell sighs. "I mean, it makes anyone with any sense want to throw up. The stable-boys are having nightmares."

"Dorian likes it." Arran points out.

A stone's throw away, Dorian is petting the bog-unicorn and murmuring what are probably not sweet nothings, given the stack of necromancy books placed nearby. Blackwall eyes this entire scene suspiciously. "I suppose it will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies." And their allies. And neutral occupants of small villages just hoping to live their lives in peace.

Arran beams. "It is proof of my love's gentle heart, that he can see the beauty in a creature that others would fear."

"Sometimes," Blackwall tells him, "I really can't tell if you're joking or not."

"The Lady of the Skies calls me." Arran says vaguely, and slumps back down to the ground.

Blackwall looks back over to where Dennett is standing with his arms crossed, and shrugs, to say _I tried_.

**Author's Note:**

> now imagine Halward's face.


End file.
